My Father’s Absence

I was just a child when my world changed forever. My father passed away when I was too young to understand the full weight of loss, but old enough to feel the emptiness he left behind. His absence was a silent shadow that followed me through my childhood at birthdays, at school events, in quiet moments when I needed his voice the most.

I remember little things: the sound of his laugh, the warmth of his arms, how safe I felt when he was near. And then, suddenly, he was gone. Grief didn't arrive all at once; it came in waves, as I grew older and began to realize all the things we would never share. I remember him just like it was yesterday I lost him.

A home without a father feels different. It’s not just the empty chair at the table or the silence on Father's Day it's the absence in moments big and small. No one to teach me how to fix things around the house, no strong hand on my shoulder when I needed reassurance, no voice telling me I was enough when the world felt too heavy.

Instead, I watched my mother do the impossible. She filled roles that were never meant to be carried alone. She was the one who walked us to school, comforted us when we cried, cheered for us when we succeeded, and held it all together when it felt like everything was falling apart. But even with all her strength, there was always that missing presence. The sense that someone who belonged here… wasn't.

We learned to live around the gap. We laughed, we fought, we survived. But every now and then, the grief would surface unexpectedly in a story someone told, in a question from a friend, in a moment when I wished he could see how far we’d come.

A home without a father isn’t just missing a man it’s missing the balance, the guidance, the emotional safety that a child instinctively seeks. But it’s also a place where love learned to stretch, to cover more ground, to rise above pain.

Raised by my mother, alongside my four siblings, was incredibly hard. My mother became everything our provider, our protector, our guide. I saw her carry a weight no one should have to bear alone, but she did it with strength that still amazes me to this day.

There were days when we had very little sometimes just enough to get by. But somehow, through the struggle, she made sure we were clothed, fed, and most importantly, loved. She was our anchor in the storm, holding the family together while grieving her own loss.

As the oldest (or youngest, or middle—whichever applies), I often felt like I had to grow up faster than other kids. We all had to. We became each other’s support system. We shared tears, laughter, responsibilities sometimes even meals when they were scarce.

There were moments when I missed my father so much it hurt to breathe. When I needed his advice, or just his presence. But over time, I found a quiet strength in knowing he lives on in the lessons he left behind and in the love we still feel.

Life has moved forward, as it always does. The ache of losing my father never fully left, but it changed over time. It softened not because the pain disappeared, but because I learned how to carry it. Grief became part of who I am, stitched into my character, shaping how I see the world, how I treat others, and how I face hardship.

Today, I stand stronger not because everything got easier, but because I got braver. My journey has had its challenges, but I’ve also seen growth, purpose, and strength I never expected. I’ve learned to find light even in dark moments, and I know that part of that resilience comes from him. From what little time I had, and from everything I imagined he would have wanted for me.

I carry his memory in my values in the way I try to be kind, work hard, and protect the people I love. I carry it in quiet moments, when I look at the sky or face a decision and wonder what he would say. I carry it in the lessons my mother passed on, many of which were born from her love for him. He may not be here, but he is not gone. He lives in the stories we still tell, the strength we inherited, and the love that never left us.